


Psalms 40:2

by cmdonovann



Category: Quantum Break (Video Game)
Genre: Arson, Jack Joyce/Paul Serene - Freeform, M/M, Partners in Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 20:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17649443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmdonovann/pseuds/cmdonovann
Summary: Jack and Paul desecrate a church.Inspired by "Psalms 40:2" by The Mountain Goats: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BcmDXkwwR4cPrompt from ao3 user vesaldi(alt title: in which Paul Serene is horny for crime)





	Psalms 40:2

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vesaldi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesaldi/gifts).



The moon is already rising high in the cloudy summer sky when Jack Joyce finally gets off his late shift at the gas station, swinging his borrowed car into the parking lot of Paul Serene’s apartment before heading out of town.  
  
He pulls off the road after a few minutes, parking the truck in a patch of overgrown grass by the highway.  
  
“Jack, are you sure about this?” Paul frowns as he climbs out of the truck, adjusting the backpack slung over one of his shoulders. The spray paint cans inside clink heavily against each other, and Paul flinches, holding the bag still, posture stiff.  
  
“Come on,” Jack says as he elbows Paul. “What’s a little vandalism between friends?” He slams the door of Will’s truck and locks it, turning around to lean against the rust-streaked side next to Paul.  
  
“I thought the point was that the church isn’t very friendly.” Paul says, leaning into Jack’s shoulder.  
  
“Well, yeah, I meant us.” Jack grins. “We’re the friends. Desecrating a church together. It’s a good bonding activity!”  
  
“But I’m not vandalizing _you,”_ Paul laughs.  
  
“Don’t be pedantic, you fucker.” Jack elbows him again, and he laughs harder. “Paul,” Jack complains, “be serious.”  
  
“I was just picturing you covered in paint.” Paul shakes the bag threateningly, the cans inside clanging against each other, and smirks at his friend.  
  
“Shh!” Jack grabs Paul’s arm, pulling him around the other side of the truck as a car rolls by on the highway. They’re parked just off the road, a mile down from the big church just outside of town, and for the first time in either of their lives, Jack is more nervous about what they’re planning to do than Paul.  
  
“Sorry,” Paul whispers, peeking over the back of the pickup bed as the car pulls away from them. “Looks like the coast is clear.”  
  
They make the trek from the car’s hiding spot in relative silence, not speaking, listening to the crunch of errant gravel from the road under their boots and the droning of crickets and cicadas in the wet summer night air. Jack pulls his leather jacket tighter around his shoulders.  
  
The parking lot of the church is empty, as Jack had hoped it would be at midnight on a Tuesday. “No one likes Tuesdays,” Jack had rationalized it when he pitched the idea to Paul last week, drunk off cheap whiskey, sitting on the floor of Paul’s apartment throwing cards into Paul’s discarded shoes.  
  
“Some people have jobs during the day, you know,” Paul had said, groaning, but in the end he agreed to it anyway. He agreed to everything Jack suggested.  
  
There’s only one street lamp to light the entire church parking lot, an expanse of blacktop the same size as than their high school gymnasium where Jack had gotten them both kicked out of prom for sneaking in an obscene amount of salt in his pockets and dumping it into the punch. Jack would have been the only one kicked out if Paul hadn’t tried to defend him, and as they approach the dark church, Jack wonders if Paul regrets all the shit Jack has dragged him into.  
  
Jack’s thoughts are dismissed when Paul breaks into a sprint to cross the last well-lit section blacktop, pulling his bandana up over his face, paint rattling around in his backpack. Jack follows close behind, surprised by Paul’s apparent lack of fear.  
  
“Wait up!” Jack struggles with his own bandana, tying it tighter behind his neck as he runs to catch up with Paul.  
  
“Hurry up, then!” Paul calls back, slowing as he crosses into the shadow of the building.  
  
“Okay, okay,” Jack says when he reaches Paul, leaning on his knees to catch his breath. “No more running.”  
  
“Keep your fingers crossed,” Paul teases, unzipping the backpack and tossing a paint can to him. Jack gives him an uneasy smile in return.  
  
“How are you so calm? Usually you’re the one freaking out about getting caught.”  
  
Paul shrugs. “I dunno. I’m not personally invested. My mom never made me go to church as a kid.” He adjusts his mask and uncaps the paint can in his hand, standing with one hand on his hip and staring up at the dark wood wall in front of him, peppered every few feet with stained glass windows. “So, what are we doing?”  
  
“I dunno,” Jack shrugs, shaking and uncapping his own can of paint. “Improvise.”  
  
In one smooth motion, Paul paints a huge red circle, using his shoulder as the center point, getting it almost perfect. Jack grins.  
  
“Nice,” he says, following suit as Paul finishes the upside-down star within the circle. In his mind, he traces a pattern he saw on the cover of a shitty metal album he picked up a few years back; a four horned goat head on a human body. His technique isn’t nearly as good as Paul’s, the spray paint more finicky than his usual doodling with pen. But even with the lines too thick in some places, the shape is clear, and when he sets the paint down, he feels a jittery kind of pride in himself.  
  
“Wow,” Paul says when he looks over, “hail Satan, I guess.”  
  
Jack snorts. “Figured it would piss people off the most.”  
  
“Well, you’re not wrong,” Paul says, looking back over his own work. A pentagram, a few choice words in seemingly meaningless order, an upside down cross. He puts his paint can back into the bag, gestures for Jack to do the same.  
  
Jack moves to toss it back over and knocks something out of his pocket. He panics for a moment, hoping it’s not his wallet. He’ll never find it again in the dark.  
  
Instead, when he looks down, he sees the reflection of moonlight off the metal cap of his lighter. He picks it up, feeling a spark of anticipation in his gut as an idea seizes him.  
  
“Jack,” Paul intones, recognizing the look on Jack’s face instantly.  
  
“Go big or go home, right?”  
  
“Jack.” Paul says again, a full stop. Jack looks at Paul, feeling something bubbling up inside him, giddiness and terror and adrenaline a volatile cocktail in his stomach, reaching his throat. Paul knows exactly what he’s about to do. “Get ready to run,” Paul says after a moment, a dark glint in his eyes as they meet Jack’s, swinging the backpack up onto his shoulder again.  
  
Jack flicks open the lighter, holds down the spray nozzle on the paint can, lights it. The stream of red paint ignites, spattering the side of the church. Jack drops the can, drops the lighter. The grass beneath them smolders for a moment, too damp to catch immediately. Paul stares at the wall aflame before them, its light reflecting in his wide eyes.  
  
“Holy fuck.”  
  
“Let’s go, let’s go!” Jack grabs Paul’s wrist and pulls, takes off running, dragging his best friend with him. He can’t keep hold of Paul’s hand in his own, wet with sweat and paint and summer humidity, but he hears Paul’s breath fast behind him as he sprints back the way they came, back to Will’s truck, speeding away from the church as fast as he can make the old thing go.  
  
“Oh my god,” Paul says, still breathing hard when they get back into the city, slowing to a stop at a light. “Oh my god, Jack, what did we just do?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Jack says, still riding high on exhilaration, heart pounding, head reeling. He can barely remember getting in the car, driving. He tries to breathe slower.  
  
“It’s okay,” Paul says slowly. “It’s okay. They don’t have cameras or anything. No one can trace it to us. You don’t even live anywhere near there. And I have no connection to the place. No one will know we had anything to do with it.”  
  
He’s talking too fast, but Jack nods anyway, not quite processing anything.  
  
“The light’s green,” Paul says.  
  
“Oh,” Jack responds, looking up at it. He takes his foot off the brake, eases off the clutch as he speeds up. He can feel his heart slowing, his better sense returning. He breathes.  
  
“I don’t really want to go home yet,” Paul says after a moment, cranking the window down and leaning against the door. He brushes his hands off on the fabric of the backpack in his lap, staining it with red. The whole truck smells like spray paint and smoke.  
  
“Pancakes?” Jack asks, clicking the turn signal on.  
  
“I’ll buy,” Paul responds immediately, checking his watch. “Not quite midnight. They should still be open.”  
  
“Nice.”  
  
Jack swings a corner a little too fast and Paul grips the edge of his seat, looking nervous for the first time all night. “You okay?” He asks, putting a hand on Jack’s shoulder.  
  
“Great!” Jack says, completely earnest. “That felt fucking great, man.”  
  
Paul laughs quietly. “Jack Joyce, I am absolutely terrified of you. Remind me to never piss you off.”  
  
“Don’t worry,” Jack smirks, not taking his eyes off the road as he pulls up to the big yellow Denny’s sign and cuts the engine. “I’ve never been able to get really mad at you.”  
  
Jack locks the car, making sure the windows are rolled back up and the backpack hidden under Paul’s discarded hoodie before they go inside.  
  
The lights inside the diner have a greenish-blue cast to them, the fluorescent buzzing just a bit too noticeable in the near-deserted building. There’s one man sitting in a corner booth alone, a cup of coffee in hand, probably just off work based on the dirty uniform he’s wearing and the tired expression on his face.  
  
They shuffle into one of the smaller booths near the front counter, the surface sticky against Jack’s already sweaty skin. It doesn’t take long for the only waitress on shift to notice them and slouch over, handing them two plastic menus and leaving to get their drinks.  
  
Jack stares at the menu for what feels like four years, not really reading it, already knowing what he wants from every previous 3am disaster pancake run with Paul.  
  
“So,” Paul says, breaking the silence without looking up from his own menu. “Are you really okay?”  
  
“Yeah,” Jack says after a moment. “Sorry for dragging you into that.”  
  
“Jack, you have never dragged me into anything in my life. If I didn’t want to do something, you would not be able to make me.”  
  
“Bullshit,” Jack says, smiling at Paul over the top of the menu. Paul blushes, just enough that Jack can see it in his ears.  
  
“Anyway.” Paul clears his throat as the waitress returns with their drinks, setting two glasses of iced tea in front of them. They order, and Paul lowers his voice as the waitress walks away, still scribbling on a notepad. “That was more that I expected to get into tonight, but I don’t regret it.”  
  
“You seemed to enjoy it,” Jack says, thinking of the look on Paul’s face when Jack started the fire, the way it reflected in his eyes.  
  
“So did you,” Paul replies, raising an eyebrow at Jack pointedly. Jack feels that thrill in his stomach again, the same he felt when he picked up the lighter. Righteousness. Eagerness.  
  
“It’s justice,” he says simply, taking a sip of his drink. He coughs when he does, grabs the container of sugar packets and empties a few into the drink, stirring in a vain attempt to make it dissolve in the ice.  
  
Paul just nods, reaches across the table to put a hand on Jack’s. “I’m still absolutely terrified of you,” he says with a short laugh, an obvious implication in his tone. Jack knows the tone, has heard it all too often when Paul is drunk; leaning against his shoulder, his head in Jack’s lap. Heard it tonight, in Paul’s warning before they ran, like the anticipation before a kiss.  
  
“You should be.”


End file.
